


I Like Pretending (Bonus Scene)

by KatyTheInspiredWorkaholic



Series: writer!Daryl [2]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Daryl's A+ porn fantasies, M/M, Masturbation, PWP, Rimming, Side story for 'My Fiction Sure Beats the Hell Out of My Truth', Smut, So not sorry for this, Still not sorry, also I use the word 'fuck' a lot, bottom!Daryl focus, did I mention masturbation?, in great detail, seriously this is just fanservice, verstile!Rickyl mentioned, while at work because he also has no self control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-29 01:16:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8470099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatyTheInspiredWorkaholic/pseuds/KatyTheInspiredWorkaholic
Summary: Upon request: exactly what Daryl thinks of when he imagines 'how it could have gone' in the bar before Shane walked in and ruined everything. And that would be porn, Daryl wants it bad.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Riastarstruck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riastarstruck/gifts).



> I think the tags and summary covered everything. I had like five different people request this, but the big push goes out to RiaStarstruck <3 this one is for you dear. It can literally fit into any part of the story in my opinion, and it's filthy this is your only warning. This is seriously just porn. 
> 
> Thank you IJustWantedYouToNeedMe for beta-ing, you are amazing and I am unworthy but oh so grateful.

\--

Daryl had a problem.

A very big problem, that was very obvious if anyone were to come behind the bar top and actually be able to view him from the waist down – he’d been standing in his usual corner leaned so far over that his forehead rested on the cool polished counter as he tried to focus on his breathing. As well as dead puppies, old people naked, his brother’s sex noises that echoed like a banshee's, _anything_ to calm the fucking raging hard-on straining in his jeans to the point of pain.

Because his damn brain wouldn’t _shut up._

Fuck, Daryl’s imagination was a thing that ran so wild it was like a fucking freight train and once it started it was impossible to stop. Images and sensations and scenes that played out as vivid and real as if he were watching it happen in front of him, and right now it was making him pant hotly against the bartop and arousal shoot to his groin as hard and sudden as lightning. Warm and devastating and god _damn_ he couldn’t even readjust himself because he could feel his damn pulse in his dick and if he did it was going to lead to things he should _not_ be doing at work. But fuck if every single one of his fantasies always started right there, at the very spot he was standing –

He could just see it now, hearing the heavy doors creak and sunlight pour through as Rick walked in and sauntered up to where Daryl was standing with only a sliver of his sanity holding him together. He would look up, because how could he _not_ , to see Rick smiling at him and about to do his usual greeting – ask where his notebook was and why he wasn’t writing today – only for the words to die on the man’s tongue. His endlessly deep blue eyes would focus in that enticing way they do, zero in on Daryl looking up at him from where he was trying to regain his composure by pressing his overheated face into the countertop, and notice _everything_. Daryl knew without a doubt the man always did. He would see the redness to Daryl’s cheekbones, how his lips had to stay lightly parted because he was having issues breathing correctly, and before Rick could ask what was wrong he’d see how blown out Daryl’s eyes were – slivers of pale blue eclipsed black with arousal and hanging by a thread.

Now, maybe he’d laugh, or get uncomfortable and try not to notice, or maybe – just _maybe_ – his own lips would part with a heavy breath, and something predatory would darken those blue eyes, a small smirk tugging at his lips as he casually leaned on his side of the counter like he always did. He’d try to think of something to say, something clever or playful, but a lot of it would go out the window – because he’d noticed Daryl watching him, he’d been watching right back after all, and he might not know what was going on but he sure as fuck knew where it was going.

“Problem?” he’d ask around the smirking upturn of his lips, relishing in watching the man squirm as Daryl tried to stand up without making his erection more noticeable than it probably was. But his hungry gaze would be sweeping up and down the other’s form, from broad hunched shoulders to narrow hips – and fuck there was no way Rick wouldn’t notice, that bastard saw _everything_.

Daryl would shake his head, not trusting himself to speak and trying to play off that he was fine and not _melting_ beneath the heated gaze that had something animalistic and primal awakening in his chest. His glazed over eyes would dart to the doors, skittering back to the gorgeous face in front of him that he knew every inch of by heart, and back to the door waiting for the other man that was always in Rick Grimes’ shadow.

“No Shane today,” Rick would tell him, grinning and showing teeth that Daryl wanted scraping against his throat. “Sheriff has him catching up on paperwork, probably won’t make it for a bit.” His Southern Kentucky drawl would be rumbling low, suggestive, eyes still sweeping hot as heat waves across Daryl’s skin, until they’d land back on Daryl’s eyes and wait unblinkingly for a sign. Something that said this wasn’t what Daryl was wanting and he needed to back the fuck off – they were still in Georgia after all.

But God Daryl would be frozen to the spot and would _not_ want to admit how close to begging he was.

Dixons didn't fucking beg.

Something would light like a fire in him at that thought, he’d stand straighter and square his shoulders in a way that exaggerated the expanse, tilt his head up, level his gaze with Rick’s and mutter out a “that so.” The silence that would follow would be so heavy with promise they could choke on it, Daryl’s jaw set tight and a slight twitch to his lips would just set it all off like a damn powderkeg.

Rick’s hand would reach across the bartop as fast as a snake, fist into Daryl’s black Zepplin T-shirt and twist the fabric so his grip would be firm enough to drag the other man’s whole torso across the counter – and though every instinct Daryl had ever grown up with would tell him to flinch, stop the action and retaliate, this time he wouldn’t. Rick would crash his lips into Daryl’s and immediately fall into the movement of prying his lips open with his own and tracing his tongue along his teeth. Daryl would groan into the kiss, deep and low much like he did into the countertop getting lost in this damn _fantasy_ that just _wouldn't stop_. Rick would kiss the fucking life out of him, it would be the perfect combination of rough and pliant, flirting with leaving bruises and hot and wet as sin. Daryl would bury one hand in those dark curls to hold him there, to angle his head and let his own tongue venture in to map out the inside of the other’s mouth, while the other braced himself against the counter until he couldn’t fucking do it anymore. The countertop between them had to fucking go.

Bottles would clatter loudly, some falling and breaking as Daryl stopped giving a flying fuck about where they were and used the well as a foothold to climb up onto the damn counter. Rick would then use two hands fisted in his shirt to help him up and across, Daryl’s shoulders rolling like a large cat's as he pulled himself up onto the bar before swinging his legs around to hop off – but Rick wouldn’t let him. He’d only let go of his shirt to grab those hips and cease his movement – sliding down to his thighs and yanking them apart then forward so he could be pulled flush against where the deputy stood, now between Daryl’s legs and looking up into his face, never breaking eye contact as Daryl’s groin pressed into his lower torso – just to watch Daryl pant out a heated breath. _Fuck_ there were so many ways Daryl had imagined Rick Grimes between his legs, but this was probably his best visual yet.

And he was still at fucking _work_.

_Shit_.

Daryl slid back off the counter and braced his arms against it, gripping the lip tightly and leaning his head down so it hung between his shoulders heavily. Fuck his heartbeat was pounding like a bass beat at a fucking rave and it thrummed through his whole body as he thought about finally running his hands along Rick’s strong throat and chest, feeling the scruff on his face that had been getting thicker with each passing week, his own knees bracketing the deputy’s narrow torso and holding on as they crashed back together so searing hot they might as well have been soldered together. Rick’s hands holding him in place with one still on his hip and the other tracing up his back to push him closer, the motion making Daryl’s hips rock into the other’s abdomen and just the thought of relieving some of the pressure between his legs had Daryl making a high pitched sound in the back of his throat.

Fuck he needed to get out of there.

He straightened back up still gasping for air, as if breaking through a surface of water, and managed to get out from behind the bar and to the door to turn the open sign off and flip the paper sign around saying he’d be back soon. It took crossing that space to realize he was walking with a fucking _limp_ because it hurt too damn much to even move, Daryl had to use the doors for support as he locked them and barely managed to make it to a place a little out of sight before his spine hit a wall and he slid to the floor. He was still in front of the bar, staring hazily at the line of bar stools and knowing _just_ where they came up to on him because he maneuvered them around every night when he closed shop.

And they were just about waist high.

Perfect to be _bent over_.

A groan that was far too loud echoed around the empty bar, and Daryl was already palming himself through his jeans, openly panting for breath and flushed a feverish red that was making him sweat and his long hair stick to his neck and face. Fucking _shit_ , he really could be bent over those damn bar stools, or maybe Rick could be – fuck he’d look so pretty bent over like that, but Daryl’s mind already had himself in that position and it continued to play behind his eyes as he finally fumbled with the button on his jeans to get them open. He was really about to do this in Dale’s bar, but Goddamnit he was going to lose his mind if he didn’t find some relief soon.

And he wasn’t going to get it the way he wanted, with his jeans around his ankles and the stool digging into the V of his hips as Rick slid hot hands down his back, pressing lightly between his shoulder blades to remind the other to keep his chest flush with the top of the bar stool. There were so many ways he could open Daryl up, and the Dixon’s face burned hot in shame and embarrassment and arousal at the thought of Rick’s fingers – or shit even his _mouth_ , his gorgeous fucking mouth with those full lips dripping wet and lightly red from Daryl biting at them, his tongue dragging against Daryl’s entrance with his fingers tracing and pressing in –

“ _Fuck,_ ” God where did that even _come from_ , Daryl couldn’t tell if he was mortified or not at even thinking that about a man who barely knew his name but he was beet red and gasping for breath, breathy little hitches punctuating every exhale. His hand was around his own dick, palm spit-slick and pumping up and down with vigor as the damn porno played out in his head. He’d had sex with a guy before, Daryl was no virgin, though he’d never been on bottom like that – but fuck if in that moment he _wanted_ to. Just for Rick, just to know the hot burning pain-pleasure sensation of having him sink balls deep and –

Fuck, just pound the ever-loving _shit_ out of him.

Those damn bar stools would never hold up, he’d have to grip one of the legs with one hand and the bartop with the other just to keep himself in that position, have Rick help hold him in place – fuck maybe he’d even fist those fingers through his hair as he thrust to help him hold on because Daryl didn’t know if he’d be able to stay still like that. Would buck back, try to fuck himself deeper, chasing his own orgasm and wanting to feel Rick in his _bones_ , pray that Rick’s hands would be all over him – grasping hot and heavy and holding on, leaving bruises on his hips and shoulders. Something that would remind Daryl that it had really happened, because it looked so real in his head in that moment that if it ever were to happen Daryl wouldn’t be able to believe it – would want proof marked into his skin.

He’d let Rick mark him up.

A strangled sound came from him as he fucked his fist and started to feel a tightening, blinding heat rise up inside him, rushing through his veins euphorically and maddeningly good – so damn good, telling Daryl he was close. He stroked himself harder and faster past the point where his hand had gone dry again, only precome slicking the way but he just didn’t care anymore because Daryl wasn’t sitting on the ground anymore – he was bent over a bar stool being fucked so thoroughly and well that he could barely breathe. His heart beating in his throat and the overwhelming pleasure coursing through him like a tidal wave finally peaked and crashed as his orgasm broke at the crest. Daryl was sure the people in the laundry mat across the street heard his half moan-half shout as he came all over his fist, so hard and long that it spilled over his fingers and all down the crotch of his jeans. His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath, sweat slicked and burning hot, riding the waves of pleasure as they fizzled out like ripples in a pond. Until he was a blissed out mess of a puddle on the floor of the bar.

Holy fuck.

Holy _fuck_.

How the hell was he going to look Dale in the eye next time he saw him, there were _cameras_ in there.

Daryl leaned his head back until it thumped against the wall of the bar, and thumped it a few extra times for good measure. He shouldn’t have done that, that was incredibly stupid, and probably the best orgasm he’d ever had by himself.

Fuck.

It took Daryl a few minutes to pry himself up from the floor, and a few more to wash himself up and make his jeans look like they weren’t stained in jizz, before he was able to open the bar back up and actually do his damn job. It was a good thing too because not ten minutes later the old metal doors creaked open, sunlight pouring through, and Daryl looked up from where he had been restocking the beer bottles in the ice well to see who had walked in.

“What, no notebook today?” Rick asked, sauntering up to the bar and leaning against the counter with a small smirk tugging at his lips, and Daryl’s brain short-circuited and fizzled out into nothingness.

It was fucking Tuesday. 

His Goddamn _life_.

Daryl wasn’t able to look Rick Grimes in the eye for the rest of the night.

 


End file.
